


Three City Maps

by ThreeBs



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: A Standing Ovation With Orihara Izaya, A Sunset With Orihara Izaya, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bodyguard, Canon Compliant?, Canon Disabled Character, Caretaking, Child Neglect, Complicated Relationships, Disabled Character, Forgiveness, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Proud Shizuo, Idiots in Love, Lack of Communication, M/M, Making Love, Medical Device, Mistakes, Misunderstandings, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Past Relationship(s), Past Violence, Post-Canon, Post-Ketsu, Regret, Reminiscing, Reunions, Second Chances, Self-Discovery, Self-Hatred, Shizuo Controlling His Anger, Starting Over, The Golden Trio, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Wheelchairs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-14 12:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13008105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeBs/pseuds/ThreeBs
Summary: Three cities intertwine through time.





	1. Shinjuku

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TeamAlphaQ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamAlphaQ/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shizuo.

Outside the fogged windows of the train to Shinjuku, it snows.

     Only the rumbling of the wheels against the tracks echoes in the empty streets, keeping tempo with his heart's every beat. Eleven at night, the crowd is silent as the miles per hour slow down to a halt. The weight grumbles, the speed trembles, the nervous energy flows through his feet first. He tries to wipe his hot breath against the clouded glass, but there's nothing to see when there's only mist in the distance. The static winter scenery throws his mind into a blizzard of the past like it's the only place he belongs. Steel on steel sparks come alive, the screech of the train stops, and his body sways with the pressure. The doors open and the force of the breeze rustles his hair away from the frown lines in between his creased brows. He walks out, dragging his shoes to the rhythm of the wind’s quiet whistling. He pulls the collar of his white button-up shirt, barely saving his cheeks from the rough kiss of the burning frost. Behind the world in blue, his peaceful chest tightens and the sight of a familiar building makes his eyes water, though he swears, it's the cold air of December. He reaches into his breast pocket, taking the black key Celty created for him and opens the door, creaking with the minutes of misuse, with the weather of lost causes.

"I'm home," he whispers.

     Dust on a gray desk, two silver rings catching moonlight, the way they always did. A game board on the coffee table, a lone white king in the middle and a broken black pawn laying at its feet. Shizuo doesn’t want to imagine the meaning behind it, can’t think this is what was planned all along. He wouldn’t understand, he couldn’t wrap his mind around it, even if he reached the correct answer; he doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to believe it. He sits on the sectional with long legs apart, back hunched in on himself, and he stares at his hands, knuckles healed, no marks on his body; he hates it. He should carry scars, physical reminders for everyone to see; proof of all he’s done, the worst he’s capable of.

It seems everyone else has forgotten the mind that used to run the city behind the scenes, but not him.

     Mahogany stairs, metal railing, reflective bolted walls, and a distorted shadow of himself, like a monster in the night. He unwinds his bowtie, drops it on the night table, and shakes his vest off, letting it fall on the charcoal floor. Buttons undid, zipper down, knees on the mattress, skin on black sheets. It’s been two years, but the bed still smells faintly of anise. He never smokes when he comes here, worried he may corrupt the last ounce of him in this vacant loft. Through the panoramic window, he sees a city swirled in grays, stuck in time, beautiful and dead. Humid to chill, the rain and snow have washed away the splattered blood that puddled across the road.

Ruby smile, cream-colored fur, and glittering knives; he can still hear childlike laughter, sobs, whispers of “do it,” “monster,” and “goodbye.” It plays like a supercut in his mind as he lays his head on a pillow and closes his eyes; a face of resignation, resentment, regret; Izaya behind eyelids.

     It’s the ghost pain of broken bones that aren’t his, the sound of a fragile body hitting metal; concrete. It’s the sting of a blade on his unshakable muscles that he doesn't register. It’s his own fault, that much he knows. He deserves the feeling of abandonment he assimilates with Izaya; deserves his silence, his hate, more than he ever did before. Back pressed against a door, a few months after he lost the sight of him on that afternoon, he eavesdrops on Kine and Shinra talking about the informant’s last moments in the city of Ikebukuro.

_“Izaya didn’t care if he died as long as he wasn’t here anymore. He didn’t want to see anyone, least of all Heiwajima-kun.”_

_"That fight was a conscious suicide mission on Orihara-kun’s part,”_ and that more than anything, broke Shizuo’s heart; an organ he’s not convinced he has.

     He turned around and headed in the direction where he had come from. Silent heavy steps dragged on the hallway carpet of Shinra's building complex with ice water on his chest, positive he didn’t want to hear anything more if it would only bring more sorrow, guilt. He can’t forget how it felt to throw Izaya like a porcelain doll, his bones crackling with the angle of his punch, invisible pieces shattered, scattered, around the city through the years. He drove the only person who ever gave his body to Shizuo willingly, allowing himself to be wrapped in Shizuo’s arms, trusting he could, would touch him with the weight of a feather. Shizuo held to love, but it was too fragile for his rough hands to handle. Now, he sits on Izaya’s counter, lays on his bathtub, and sucks on the aftertaste of ootoro left on his fingertips waiting for a man with a smart mouth and a face that puts the gods to shame, to never appear again.

He hopes for a sign of Izaya’s survival; if it's the last thing he'll ever hear of him.

\-----------

    Smoke emits from the cigarette that rests in a stone ashtray, mingling with his visible breath, until both dissipate in the gust. The porcelain edge of a cup is set between his lips, steaming violet tea running down his throat, hugging the inside of his torso. Snow accumulates in his bleached hair, on asphalt, and the bridge of his nose is tinted pink, like the chair he sits on. It’s strange, his face is calm in this picturesque moment on the sidewalk of a tea shop, but he can’t stop craning his neck and shifting his sight to the corner of his eyes, nerves on high alert for a black coat, black hair, black jeans in contrast to the white that is now Shinjuku. He imagines glimmering skin running his way, running away. Shoulder’s on edge waiting for divine retribution, a voice calling, “Shizu-chan,” with an ironic innocent lilt to it. Perhaps even a, “did you miss me?” from a purred grumble amidst the silence, yet, all he has is sugar rotting his teeth and an empty seat in front of his.

“Hello.” The voice has a nasal quality, endearing if it wasn't annoying.

      The man is thin and short, half of Shizuo’s height. He looks like a teenager, but as Shizuo stares into his small, almost closed, brown eyes, his instincts are certain the man is in his mid-twenties, or older. He wears all black except for his red shoes, and his shoulder-length brown hair sways in the breeze, bangs swept to the side. He has a gentle smile displayed on his face, like someone that has just moved into the city. Shizuo stares him down and doesn’t say a word of greeting in return, half hoping the silence and his scowl will drive the kid away, but he can’t ignore the distinct weight of dismay that has placed itself in Shizuo’s stomach with the presence of this stranger, who calls himself Taro. He pulls the chair, scraping the cement, and the sound makes Shizuo grit his teeth in annoyance. He drops his messenger bag nonchalantly on the glass table, hitting the ashtray and letting it fall on the snow with the half-smoked cigarette. When he sits, fitting his legs under the table, his knees hit the bottom surface and his midriff bumps on the edge, causing the umbrella above their heads to rattle and some of the tea in the cup to spill. Shizuo still doesn’t say a word, but the vein in his temple pulses violently in a way that hasn’t for two winters.

"I'm interviewing people about Orihara Izaya. I hear he's infamous in these parts."

"No."

"Eh? Why not?" There’s an audible pout in the voice.

"I'm not talking about the flea."

"Flea? Is that your nickname?" He raises a suggestive eyebrow.

"It doesn't fucking matter."

"You're quite an angry fellow." His smile turns condescending. 

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You know Orihara-san.” It’s not a question.

“Who doesn’t in these parts.” Shizuo sips at his tea, proud of himself for controlling his anger in a way he couldn’t, wouldn’t, years before.

“What would you like to tell me about him?"

"Why are you asking about him anyway?"

"Curiosity. As far as I know, there was an altercation and he disappeared, just like that, that day."

"He’s a tendency to get obsessed when he wants something. He’d risk his life, did once."

"Why do you think that is? He can't let things go, I mean?"

"I don't know." Shizuo really wonders why words are spilling out of his mouth so easily to this “Taro” person.

"Can you let things go?"

"Excuse me?"

"What happened right before he disappeared?"

"He started a fight with a monster."

"I see."

The silence doesn’t last long.

"He alive?"

"Yes, yes he is."

"Do you know who I am?"

"Hm? Do I have to know something?"

"No. If you see him again, tell him to stay out of Ikebukuro."

The other man stands up, draping the bag’s strap over his left shoulder.

"This is Shinjuku. Regardless, he's learned the lesson. I don't think he would want nor can fight the strongest man of Ikebukuro anymore, right Heiwajima Shizuo?" 

Before Shizuo can even process the conversation, he’s alone.

\-----------

     Shizuo enjoyed being in his apartment; joy filling his chest in the quiet privacy in contrast to the booming noise outside his four walls. He spent many nights on his brown couch watching cliché action movies and drama television shows. He would make his reasonably sized bed with the best cheap cotton sheets he could afford and read novels of romantic adventures and classics from around the world, translated into Japanese. His refrigerator was filled with milk, ice cream, and some fruits too. It was home, but now, strangely enough, it’s unrecognizable. When he’s not working overtime with Tom, he’s in Shinjuku, where he reads about philosophy on the living room floor and sits on a counter immersed in psychology studies. It’s not like the loft feels cozy or inviting, in fact, for all its modern beauty, it's impersonal and lonely. He’s certain it felt the same way when Izaya lived there, perhaps tinged with an ounce of manic episodes and outstretched melancholic hours, yet, it feels more like home to him as the minutes trickle down his skin.

Things have changed; Izaya is alive. It’s a never-ending story, a never-ending circle; somehow ending before it’s done. He can’t delude himself with lies of moving on or mistaking years of hate for adoration. He can’t pretend he doesn’t want to run towards the unknown with Izaya’s hand in his; that’s as good as any other place to start; to be. Shizuo barely recognizes himself anymore, but he’s sure he isn’t the only one, and that makes him feel less isolated in the far away corners he tucks himself in someone else's building. He wants the stereotypical ‘together forever,’ he wants to depend on someone else, wants someone to depend on him knowing his strength can protect, shield, give warmth in the middle of a snowstorm. He makes a decision then and there, settling with determination in his bones; no amount of violent winds can keep them apart. He wants it all.

He opens his flip phone and messages Celty to visit him for a talk before packing a duffel bag with everything he needs for at least a month. 

_No, I can't let go of things either._

\-----------

[What's wrong?]

"Do you know where Izaya is?"

[I do.]

"Did you know he was alive all this time?"

[Yes.]

"Why didn't you tell me?"

[You never asked.]

"I thought I had killed him."

[I know.]

"Why didn't you tell me?"

[Not my secret to tell. You never asked.]

"Give me his address."

[Sure?]

"Yes."

[Ok.]

\-----------

      It all looks so small, innocent, from a distance. He had never noticed it, never took the time to truly think back to his life, to the years, to the fucking city. It seems to be a place where dreams come true, a place that couldn’t possibly hold beasts, riders, underground doctors, and demon swords. He tells himself he’ll return, a useless mantra of almost decisiveness, but longing clings to his ribs and nostalgia holds his fingertips; he almost doesn’t want to go back. He stares at the skyscrapers, his reflection on them through the window, as he’s driven away. He can feel the snap of the string of fate breaking between him and Shinjuku. He wonders if this is how Izaya felt as if part of himself was being ripped apart as he painted the road red with his blood and his heart slowed down to a blur. He can’t imagine how it felt to be Izaya that day, as he disappeared in the middle of the commotion, never to return, as if he was, in fact, dead.

He still can’t forgive himself, and he can’t think Izaya would either, but he smiles, a bittersweet tilt of his lips, and continues moving forward.

He's not sure what will happen, but he's determined to fight, to have Izaya back in his life, no fists this time. 

He can’t forget the truth of peaceful loneliness, and while his eyes water, he swears, it’s just the cold December air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like this Q!! It's a detour from "TAOAC," that I just had to do, I couldn't get this idea out of my head and I though it best to dedicated it to you, one of my "Shizaya" Queens! <3
> 
> Symbolism:  
> Infusions(the tea) of violets is said to heal a broken heart and reduces anger.
> 
> I gave the interviewer the name Taro, which is not his real name, as Shizuo already suspected. "Taro" adopted this name from Izaya's Dollar's handle. In this story/universe, Taro is also an informant (up and coming) that greatly admires, if not completely obsesses, over Izaya. Of course, Izaya is a magnificent informant and paranoid as the sun is made of fire, leaving any inside information of himself nowhere to be found. These interviews are not something Taro is doing for Izaya, nor will he ever show it to Izaya, but it is his own way of trying to learn more, especially personal things concerning Izaya. What he finds out in these interviews are not to be shared nor to harm Izaya in anyway, but simply to feed into his own obsession and curiosity.
> 
> Are there any errors? Let me know in the comments below!  
> Tell me what you think!
> 
> -3B


	2. Yokosuka I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izaya.
> 
> \-------
> 
> Shizaya.

Outside the window of the hotel suite in Yokosuka, it rains.

     With trembling arms, he pushes his body upwards, pain spiking up his lungs, knots in his collar bones pulling taut. He hunches his back and grips the arms of the wheelchair in a white-knuckle hold with the illusion of balance. He stands, knees quivering, feet throbbing, body swaying, and exhales a shaky breath of relief when he allows his entire weight to drop, landing seated on the edge of the bed. He sighs as his body meets mattress, as his skin is caressed by a silk comforter. With the tense angle of his shoulders and the set form of his spine, he lays on the bed, stiff legs aching with the weather, but he doesn’t grimace any longer. He stares at the black wheelchair a few feet away, metal glimmering yellow with the last remnant of sunlight. Its presence is strangely reassuring, comforting like he can still move regardless of the penance he vows to embrace. In fact, it’s easy to move that way, wheels on a smooth surface. A crease between brows, grinding pressure on his teeth, he rolls over, turning his back on the world that lies behind a locked wooden door. He watches the raindrops as they slide down the glass, hitting with a soft rhythm that eases his muscles but does nothing for sleep. Slightly muffled by the idle rhythm and the swift sway of the waves, the closed window, he can hear seagulls and humans laughing. He sets his gaze to the distance, where fog settles between where the sky meets the sea.

     He doesn’t cry, not anymore. Instead, he plays it cool against his disability when he catches himself dreaming of legs wrapped around Shizuo’s waist.  He wears a sneer to distract himself from the tightness in his throat when he has the itch to run down alleyways, to jump atop rooftops, strut through the clean sidewalks of Yokosuka. He holds on to his prideful nonchalant attitude when he glimpses at his reflection from the corner of his eye in the mirrors scattered around the hotel. He remembers looking back into reflective red irises, now they are a lackluster garnet. He recalls a cutting edge to his voice and though he still throws mocking words like knives, they no longer feel honest. He swears he used to be taller too when he didn’t need to sit patiently for hours on end to take action. It stings like electrical waves inside his body when he crosses his legs, one atop the other in elegant lines, but he hides the instant frown, the groan that wants to spill out his tongue; the discomfort is a mild price to pay for staying alive.

     He glowers at the waxing moon and chuckles in self-deprecation at how irrational he’s being, and that might be a true testament of his psyche, but he imagines Shizuo left him the way he always thought he would, and for his disappointed delusion, he can’t think any different of him. Izaya was dragged with blurry sight and a hazy mind through broken asphalt, and in a runaway car, he made the decision to never return, even if it meant death. There was nothing left for him, and yet, it hurts to know Shizuo let him go without so much as a last shout of his name echoing through the streets of Ikebukuro. Painted in hate, he would have treasured a monster’s roar, a magnificent growl, if that passion was dedicated to him. It’s been two years but he doesn’t think he’ll get over Shizuo and all the memories that weight down on his cervical spine. They’re not all bad, and somewhere in the depths of his brain he remembers saying that once, with alcohol in his blood and something he’s sure was far too gentle against Shizuo’s jugular.

     Does Shizuo regret the time spent around each other like a mint chewed up gum that lost all its flavor, thrown out a window? Is he aware of all the jagged, smooth, pieces of Izaya he has collected through the years? Is Izaya old stretched out, shrunken down, clothes he’s stuffed in the bottom of a drawer he no longer opens? He often thinks of Shizuo standing in front of him and he wants to believe he has a diamond resolve that can withstand a brush of skin like he stood his own against iron punches, that he can endure brown eyes the way he could hold a glare despite a broken heart, but he knows he would only outstretch his fragile arms and welcome Shizuo home; if he ends up crushed to death, he reasons, he deserves it either way. It’s not like Izaya can evade capture, it's not like he can hold a blade with the same precision he could, it’s not like he’s not counting the seconds left on the numbers above his head.

Dying by Shizuo’s hands is poetic justice. 

     Twenty-five years old meaning to stay young, but they both grew older as the clock ticked behind them on mute. It was always too noisy, too crowded. Busy schedules, and even when they met, there was too much they weren’t willing to share. They’re separated now like it has always been. He threw his life away inside storms of lies and sweat, but it was worth it if only to have memoirs of whom Shizuo was before he broke his every joint. It’s fleeting, but sometimes he ponders the possibility of selling his inventory of memories and letting go, like a movie cassette that’s too old, too broken to keep, to watch; but it’s too precious, too sentimental to ever part with. He used to think what they had was secure and wonderful in its own convoluted way. _I guess not if this is how it ends._ He caused trouble, but don’t all absent parents show care when they are called for their children’s wrongdoings? It proved true when Shizuo dropped what he was doing by the mere smell of him. There are no regrets. He accepts the present for what it is, but he acknowledges that if he was to weight their mistakes, he would have to take the cake.

Chaos ensues in a new city, but it’s as monotonous and as monochromatic as he imagined it would be. The exciting ripples are drowned under nostalgic winds and floating under red concrete. 

     He pulls his eyelids together and drifts away; this is the way he lets everything around him occur. When he heard the shuffling of sheets, felt the movement of Shizuo’s presence lifting from his bed in the middle of the night, he pretended to sleep. He feigned that he didn’t stand up, didn’t walk to the window to watch Shizuo retreat to his own forsaken city, cigarette between teeth, leaving him in a cold and hollow loft. He wanted to believe he was the one who sent him off, but his brain refused to grasp the thought, to accept the obvious lie. He fantasizes it wasn’t rage that seeped through Shizuo’s words on their last fight. He likes to imagine he was unconscious as he left Ikebukuro behind.

Goodbye isn’t definite, _no_ , it’s true translation must be: later; _soon_.

\----------

     Izaya sits on the balcony observing human behavior while Nec sits beside him, her red nails tapping the keyboard of her laptop. The sound is relaxing, reminiscent of himself. The slight humidity caused by the evaporating rain pulls her cat-like frames down the bridge of her nose, and she huffs to herself as she pushes them back up. Izaya takes a sip of sake, an activity he would have never partaken in before, but now, the sweet rice drink eases the ache. Himari and Haruto splash water on each other with smiles on their faces, like the children they are. Distantly he wonders if they can feel the cold in the ocean by the winter weather. They run atop the muted citrine sand in what he assumes is a game of tag, or a version of it anyway. He wishes not everything led back to Shizuo.

In a sing-song voice, “Izaya-san, a certain informant is being nosy again!"

"Probability of visiting?"

"A good ninety percent!"

"Today?"

"You betcha."

"Well, it's not like we're doing much at the moment. You are dismissed, Hisae-chan."

As if on reflex, she hits the back of his neck with the edge of her open palm. "I'll kill you next time you call me by my name again!"

"Oh my, I do apologize. It just seemed to...slip." He can't help the amused chuckle that travels past his lips. 

She shakes her head in mirth, picks up her belonging and laughs in her airy sort of tone.

"See you, Izaya-san."

     Two years ago, the internet caught a raging wildfire that spread viciously with rumors of Izaya’s demise and she rode the wave. Hacking Izaya’s network could have been the highest accolade for the name “Nec,” and it was relatively simple until her computer was destroyed from the inside out. She lost the will to live with her first failure, but two weeks later Izaya sat in a wheelchair in front of her door looking elegant, dangerous, just as intimidating as she always heard he was on feet. She invited him inside her studio apartment with unsteady hands, gave him tea with a pounding head, and in return, he gave meaning to her life, gave her a place to belong, a moment to restart, a promise.

She accepted it, and to this day, as far as anyone is concerned, Nec has never failed as a hacker.

Hisae doesn’t love Izaya, but she holds him in a special pocket of her heart, designed just for him. 

\----------

“Taro-kun, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”

"I'm traveling and I wanted to let you know that I plan to learn many things about you, with your permission, of course."

“Oh? What do you hope to find? I can assure you, there's nothing particularly interesting about me."

“Curiosity. You’re rather fascinating, remarkable even!"

“Praise will get you everywhere, with someone else. Where are you going?”

“Shinjuku and Ikebukuro. The bases of your past operations.”

“Do as you please. I will ask a very important favor of you for my willingness to allow this. If you find a beast, let him know about a certain lively flea?”

“Anything for you, Izaya-san.”

“Safe travels, Taro-kun.”

Izaya smiles a genuine thing for the first time in more than three summers as Taro leaves and Densuke makes his presence known.

"Izaya-dono, must I be wary of this Taro-kun person?"

"Not at all. He's as harmless as a fly."

"Flies can be quite dangerous. They do transmit many diseases."

"Yes, but this little fly will only forward a message I have asked of it. Other than that, he won’t find anything that he doesn’t already know. Ikebukuro knows nothing true, and I trust Shinichi will do as he did with Nec’s lovely computer if he tries anything."

"You are a despicable man, Izaya-dono, but I must admit, your brain is admirable, and I hate myself for even uttering those words."

"You flatter me!"

"I promise to kill you once the ten years are over."

"Ah, that's more like it! There's the bodyguard-san I know!"

Fondness is not something Densuke ever thought he would associate with the heretic joker.

Life is a funny thing; it often doesn't move as one has planned. 

* * *

"Himori-chan, would you mind buying some groceries?"

"You want me to stop the lesson?" 

"Yes. You're catching up rather fast so, it won't hinder your progress."

"Alright. What would you like me to acquire?"

"Anything you’d like for yourself and Haruto, some fatty tuna for myself, and… ah! yes, strawberry milk."

"You do not even like milk, much less anything sweet, Izaya-san."

"Just get me the milk, sweetheart." He smirks.

"Don't call me that. I'll be back, or not."

"Mhm."

"Don't say that Himori!" shouts Haruto, distracting himself from his assignment.

Izaya clears his throat, "Haruto-kun, let's take a break from all this studying. Why don't we go to the back-porch downstairs?"

"Ok, Izaya-san!" 

Himori walks out the room ignoring them both. 

\---------

    Shizuo won’t allow the rain to halt the hurried scuff of his shoes on concrete. He’s waited for what felt like forever to let anything deter him from his single-minded mission. _Izaya, Izaya, Izaya_ ; the name echoes incessantly inside his head, like a mantra, a prayer. He bites his lips to keep his voice, thoughts, inside himself. Let not the world know of his obsessive compulsion to addict himself with another man. He can’t feel the drops on his skin against the adrenaline running inside his arteries, the anticipation coursing through his bone marrow. He can see the hotel, but in his self-contained focus, he doesn’t notice the ten-year-old girl walking sideways until he bumps the length of his leg into her body. She doesn’t fall, not when he widens his eyes and watches the sight of her losing balance, catching herself with the grasp of his hand on her forearm. She makes a noise inside her throat of mild discomfort and overall surprise. The sound makes him wince internally and he quickly softens his grip, hoping the weight of his fingers didn't leave any bruising. She huffs, pout on lips, and she turns her face upwards, carding her fingers through her blonde-bob hair, mindful of the black ribbons.

"Sorry."

She averts her scrutinizing gaze towards him, raising an eyebrow and giving him a once over.

"You are tall."

"Yeah, six-one."

"That's quite a stature."

He blinks. "Um...yeah, I guess."

"Well, though I do not appreciate being run over by a giant, I suppose a thank you is in order, so, thank you." 

"You're welcome...and I'm really sorry." He scratches the back of his neck, a nervous habit.

"It's alright."

She starts walking away when, "Hey, I'm actually looking for an old friend. I was told he's staying here, maybe you've seen him?"

"Describe."

"Um, he’s slim and he has black hair-"

"You need to do better than that. That's almost the entire population of Japan, Asia, even."

"Um...yeah, ok, he... well, he is, was? An informant?"

She sighs. "I might know of someone; does he have a name? I know a few of the guests by name."

"Izaya."

"I see. He's in the back of the hotel."

"Oh...thanks!"

"If you kill him, I won't mind!" Himari smiles, waving her hand as she continues walking out of the hotel.

\----------

Haruto sits on the floor, next to Izaya's wheelchair, both staring out to the horizon.

"Izaya-san, thank you for teaching me all these new things, even English! I'm a little sad I can't see my friends, but I have new ones! I can't wait to grow up and be just like you!"

"There's no need to grow up too fast for that, Haruto-kun."

"Oh no, Izaya-san! It will be great, I could help you with anything! You would love me more!"

"Go and play, Haruto-kun," says Izaya, with a forlorn glint in his eyes

"Ok!"

     He knows he ruined Mairu and Kururi from what they could have grown up to be. He was ten-years-old and learning how to be independent on his own when he had to neglect himself to care for two toddlers; girls, no less. He did his best with the non-existent example he was given. Affection? That’s not something parents give, they pay for a roof and food.

Himori and Haruto is his second chance, but he knows he’s not fairing any better.

     Izaya learned the hard way; love is simply not enough when there are pictures frames that lay waiting, avoiding, to be hung; when the word is thrown around like another phrase over the phone instead of traveling to a graduation ceremony to whistle pride in the crowd. Love is not enough when there are red wine and no one to share it with, even as he imagines Shizuo’s perfect ungrateful smile across the table, or when Shizuo waits for him to say something, anything, but the intention doesn’t take flight, and every love confession dissolves in tea; cowardice pulverizing his ribs until he tells himself he didn’t want any part of it anyway. Love is not enough to dissipate the black clouds he carries from being a lonely child calling for attention, feigning bravery as he separated himself from Shizuo’s warmth, shielding himself in deceit, even when he desired to awaken tangled up in him. Love is not enough when he let Shizuo go, even if all he wished for was to fall asleep with mouth pressed on Shizuo’s lips. Love was never enough as he pleaded for Shizuo to never forget, even as he made up his mind that Shizuo wanted peace, wanted anyone else that wasn’t him; hoping fruitlessly to be loved by Shizuo, anyone.

     It doesn’t matter. If he admitted his attachment to Shizuo he wouldn’t have listened, because he never did, yet somehow, it was the silence that broke them more than any fight they took part in for eleven autumns; it was the quiet the one thing Shizuo could hear clearly. Shizuo never read the words that circled in Izaya’s eyes, _"I knew you wouldn't, couldn't, love me the way I love you,"_ because for all his 'action speaks louder than words,' he never looked at Izaya's face enough to truly see what was there instead of passing judgement of who he thought Izaya was, is.

Shizuo must have found someone else, but he wants to scream that it’s him who loves a beast like a servant worships a god.

\----------

     Shizuo can smell anise, can hear Izaya in the air, can feel the vibrations of him in the floor, can taste him inside his abdomen, can see him in the dust particles in the sky. He understands Izaya left, but he can't pay this sentence eternally; he refuses to believe Izaya would ask of him to continue living without him. He can’t deny the force of gravity that pulls him to orbit around Izaya like he’s the only fixation worth becoming a devotee for. Forget what he needs, what’s healthy or correct; he wants Izaya like he’s dependent on the dopamine that rushes in his bloodstream in a haze over the moon with the mere thought of him. He’s willing to try and let Izaya sleep on it tonight. Shizuo wants to be good for once, and he doesn’t want to confuse him, doesn’t want to cause any pain, but with every step he takes, he wants to take their entire past back, start from scratch. He can still see the black-haired teen he met thirteen years ago; infuriating with his fitted black uniform and his goddamn smirk like he was in control; something Shizuo didn’t have, didn’t know how to achieve.

It wasn’t hate, it was jealousy.

\----------

     The sun is bright high up in the sky, peaking through the clouds in a way it hasn't done for days. The ocean shimmers like clean cut moissanite with each new ripple, and Izaya sits observing the rain drizzle, sparkling like white sapphires, pooling atop the sand, music as it hits the waves. He has a mind to yell at the stars for existing in pairs, in constellations, but instead, his fingers wrap themselves in the arms of his chair, the hairs on his nape rise, and his eyes blow up wide when he sees Shizuo walking out of the glass doors of the hotel. His breath claws inside his throat, the devil hugs his heart to a pulp, and his pupils dilate, despite himself. This must be a hallucination; a sickening joke the universe plays with his emotions. He can feel his nerve changing gears to overdrive, and he grabs the wheels of his chair, preparing to flee, confident Shizuo wouldn’t recognize him without seeing his face, but his body doesn’t force itself to move. Shizuo’s back is to him and against his control he chokes a sob, recoiling into himself, willing the ground to reach up and drag him into the abyss of hell. He can’t decide if he wants to repent or cuddle against the scolding flames just to entangle his fingers between wet blonde hair. Shizuo looks to the side at the sound and the white of his eyes are fluorescent in contrast to his dry mouth.

"I-Izaya?" he stutters. 

Izaya’s eyes stare back like red tinsels, looking equals parts afraid, relieved, _in love_ ; and it threatens to swallow Shizuo’s heart whole.

"Shizu-chan," he breathes.

Shizuo's eyes stare back like gold sequins, looking equal parts hesitant, relieved, _in love_ ; and it threatens to spatter Izaya's brain whole. 

And if tears run down their cheeks, it's just the salt in the breeze; it must be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is curious, Izaya would be staying at the "Scapes the Suite Hotel."
> 
> "he’s not counting the seconds left on the numbers above his head." This particular line is in honor of my OTP Lawlight, from Death Note. If you have never read the manga or seen the anime, essentially, a god of death, or a human who has the eyes of a god of death, can see the name and the numbers of a person's remaining lifespan above their heads.
> 
>  
> 
> Any errors? Let me know in the comments below.  
> Tell me what you think!  
> -3B

**Author's Note:**

> PS. I'm aware Ikebukuro and Shinjuku aren't actually cities, but districts, however, the way they are built and look is in a way, like cities in and on themselves, so I chose to call them that for the title and summary.


End file.
